Rawhead and Bloody Bones
by AutumnDynasty
Summary: The murder of a prominent detective's son proves to be a mistake that will cost the inhabitants of Fleet Street's famous Pie Shop more than they ever bargained for. Collaborative segment of a series found on RobinRocks' account.


Happy Halloween! What better way to celebrate than with a Sweeney Todd fic?

This is actually only a couple of segments from the first chapter of a miniseries being written collaboratively between me and **RobinRocks**. The full thing is hosted on RobinRocks' account, so if you liked this, please do go and read the full and subsequent chapters over there!

* * *

_**Rawhead and Bloody Bones**_

"...And the body?"

"In the grinder, twice ground already." Mrs Lovett feels like she could pull her hair out, she really does. But she's not getting any younger; hair won't grow back so fast anymore, and stress won't help matters.

This is going to require some thought.

Sweeney Todd drops his brandy glass on the table and begins to pace back and forth across the shop. It's closed for the morning, the smell of flour and barely-fresh pastry dough hanging in the air. Todd crosses to a window and pulls back the lace curtain.

"Do it again. We'll serve him up today," he mutters.

Mrs Lovett dusts flour from her hands and comes up beside him. It's a fine thing, their business. She won't let a small mistake like this ruin everything. Though his frown hasn't changed, Mr Todd's eyes are flitting across the street.

"Don't worry, dear. No body, no murder," she says.

It's going to be trickier than that, she knows. Someone's bound to realise the last place he was seen was Fleet Street. Especially their relatives. They've never made the papers before, their victims. In the... meat acquisition business, it pays to be discrete. Sly, if you will. They only take the loners, the poor men, the down-and-outs. Sailors, bachelors and the like.

In London, there's plenty to go around.

Todd grunts and swipes the curtain back across the window. It could do with a clean, Mrs Lovett thinks. Maybe tomorrow morning, when this has all blown over. It will have. It will.

There's a faint knocking upstairs at the barbershop door; wordlessly, Sweeney Todd straightens his waistcoat and leaves. As the shop bells stops ringing, Mrs Lovett hears a yawn. She turns to see Toby rubbing at one sleepy eye.

"G'mornin' ma'am," he yawns again. "Sorry I'm up so late."

"It's alright, pet, but don't you go sleeping in so late again tomorrow." Mrs Lovett's words are kind, but she's worried. As much as she could have used the help this morning, this isn't something children should be messed up in. By all rights, she shouldn't either. And just how much did he hear?

Perhaps Toby senses her mood, as he rushes to the broom in the corner without another word and, bless him, starts to sweep the floors she's already swept twice. She's even washed the windows, she's so worked up.

Out of the corner of her eye, Mrs Lovett spots the newspaper. She snatches it up and folds it in half, covering the headline. _Detective's Son Declared Missing. _The title's small and it's very unlikely Toby can read, but she's not taking any chances. Usually, she's the careful sort.

"My, my will you look at the time," she says and bustles around the shop, straightening thrice-straightened pots and chairs. "The meat'll need grinding again and I've a couple sets of pies to put in the oven. Be sure to open the shop at noon if I'm not back."

Toby grins at her with tentative pride. The lad's been wanting to run the shop for weeks.

"I will, ma'am." Bright and enthusiastic and enough to warm her heart a little.

But right now, she's got a newspaper to burn and a detective's son to mince.

* * *

Mrs Lovett rests in the armchair, stockinged feet tucked under the folds of her dress (new, it is; first one she's had in nigh on a decade). A battered, slightly singed book lies propped open on her lap, the last embers smouldering in the grate.

"Ma'am?" Toby asks softly, the lad not wanting to disturb her. "Ma'am?"

"Toby?" Mrs Lovett stirs and murmurs, closing the book she hadn't the energy to read.

"What're reading?"

Mrs Lovett holds up the book for Toby to read the cover, Crowquill's Fairy Book (1840). Toby takes the book and stares hard at it, a look of intense concentration tightening his jaw. Eventually, Mrs Lovett sighs; it's an amused, resigned sound, but her almost-son clutches the book tighter.

"They never taught us to read," he mumbles defensively. "What's it about?"

"Fairytales, love. Stories about made-up creatures to while away the dark hours." Toby looks thoughtfully at the book, then back to Mrs Lovett still curled in the armchair. He wants to ask, she knows, and she has to admit she's always quite fancied trying this.

"You're a mite old, but there's no time like the present, hm?" she says, beckoning him to sit on the arm of the chair. She takes the book and flicks through a couple of pages.

"You're such a good boy, we'll start with something you won't trouble yourself with. Rawhead and Bloody Bones."

She's never read to a child before, but Mrs Lovett has an engaging voice, tense and rapturous. Toby listens with horrified wonderment to the tale of two monstrous friends - Rawhead, a scabbed, mangled thing, no longer human, who stalks the streets at night looking for children to eat, and Bloody Bones, a dripping red artifice of bones and rusting metal who lives in sewers and piping, dragging naughty children to their deaths.

"Rawhead and Bloody Bones  
Steal naughty children from their homes,  
Takes them to their dirty den,  
And they are never seen again."

Mrs Lovett closes the book decisively and glances up at the clock over the mantle.

"Now you get to bed, dear. We need to be up bright and early tomorrow to clean before the weekend rush." Toby jumps up and heads towards the door. As he grips the handle, he turns.

"Thanks for the story, ma'am." Mrs Lovett waves him off, eager to be off to bed herself. However, as Toby opens the door to the dark hallway, he turns again.

"...monsters aren't real, are they ma'am?" he asks. Mrs Lovett's smile crinkles, and if her eyes look a little sharp, Toby doesn't notice.

"Of course not, love. Just make-believe." She pauses in thought, eyes on the book.

"Rawhead close behind you treads,  
Three looks back and you'll be dead.  
But close your eyes and count to ten,  
And Rawhead will be gone again."


End file.
